The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  Ever since he was a child, d’Artagnan had heard discussions about ‘the Spanish Queen,’ wed to Louis XIII of France at the age of fourteen as part of a political deal to tie the two countries together more closely, while bringing magic back to the ruling House of Bourbon. Over the years, those discussions had turned increasingly bitter, as the much-touted Mage Queen failed to either bear Louis an heir or come into her powers.

  Meanwhile, Anne’s brother Philip, the King of Spain, had grown into a powerful dark mage in a country where magic still flowed through the veins of many. When Philip and his war magni unleashed the Curse on France, the hopes pinned on Queen Anne guttered and died when her powers still had not developed.

  Anger over the royal family’s inability to counter the Curse no doubt played a part in the ease with which Louis’ brother, the Duc d’Orléans, was able to oust him from France’s throne. Years later, two-thirds of France’s population was dead—both Louis and his brother among them. But if the Mage Queen was finally coming into her power after bearing an heir to the Bourbon line, perhaps all was not lost.

  Please, God, d’Artagnan prayed to the deity who had thus far forsaken him. Please let Aramis be the first of many to be saved.

  “Is this likely to work without a magnus to focus your magic?” Milady asked, frowning.

  D’Artagnan held his breath, awaiting the answer. Such concepts were beyond the simple low magic he had grown up with, but as he understood it, true mages—both dark and light—relied on the magni to amplify their abilities. Concentrated among the Catholic clergy, magni possessed a sort of neutral magic, of no real use on its own, but powerful when combined with the abilities of a mage.

  Powerful enough, as had been proven, to bring an entire country to its knees.

  There were no magni here to focus the Mage Queen’s power... if she had, in fact, truly come into it. Would such assistance be needed for one sick man?

  “I don’t know,” said the Queen.

  Athos had been silent since his initial protest, but now he spoke quietly. “D’Artagnan is a hedgewitch.”

  D’Artagnan blinked, caught completely by surprise as all eyes landed on him. “Erm...” he said.

  Milady’s gaze bored into him. “Plant magic?” she asked. “Your Majesty, could it work?”

  Queen Anne lifted her chin. “I daresay we’re about to find out. D’Artagnan, show me to the room where Aramis is resting.”

  Chapter 50

  It had not been a full hour since they’d left Aramis’ room to eat their meal, but they returned to a terrifying sight. Porthos sat hunched by the Cursed man’s bedside, one of Aramis’ hands clutched in both of his. The big man’s shoulders were shaking.

  The sight mirrored d’Artagnan’s nightmare so closely that his head swam for a moment. “Porthos!” he said hoarsely, as Athos and Milady rushed past him.

  He forced his feet to carry him closer to the bed, a sob catching in his throat when he saw the red stain, where Aramis had coughed blood onto the pillow.

  Athos grasped Porthos by the shoulder. “Porthos, stand away from him.”

  The sound Porthos made was more animal than human, as he lifted tear-filled eyes to glare at Athos. Athos jerked his upper body around, until his anguished gaze fell on the Queen, still standing in the doorway. He stumbled to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor as he did.

  “Your Majesty—no!” he cried. “You must leave!”

  But Milady clasped him by the other arm. “Porthos. Her milk has dried up. She’s here to heal him.”

  Porthos blinked several times, clearly struggling to make sense of the words. When he did, his eyes widened. “You... your... your magic—?”

  Queen Anne held his gaze evenly. “I can make no promises, my brave and loyal Porthos. But I am here to try.”

  Porthos gaped at her for a moment longer. Then, his eyes flew back to Aramis, curled on his side—the dry rasp of his breathing seeming overly loud in the silent room. Without a word, Porthos allowed himself to be shepherded away, leaving space next to the bed for the Queen and d’Artagnan to approach.

  “I don’t know what you expect of me, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan whispered, looking down at Aramis’ grey face. “I’m only a hedgewitch.”

  Aramis groaned, and opened bloodshot eyes. “D’Artagnan?” The word was a bare rasp.

  The Queen moved into his line of sight, and his eyes widened. “Aramis. Your Mage Queen is here. I will heal you if it is within my power to do so.”

  He looked at her blankly for a few moments before his expression cleared. “Oh. Right. Hallucinations. Must be th’ delirium.”

  Then, he started coughing.

  D’Artagnan’s chest clenched in sympathy as a bloody froth tinged his friend’s lips. He flinched in surprise at the touch of slender fingers on his, lifting his right hand and guiding him to splay it over Aramis’ chest.

  He looked at the regal figure next to him with something akin to panic. “I still don’t—”

  “Hush,” the Mage Queen replied, covering his hand with hers and pressing them both against Aramis’ flesh with firm pressure.

  He closed his eyes against the sight of his friend with blood trailing from his lips, holding his breath in hopes that it would keep everything he was feeling trapped inside as well.

  Warmth tingled beneath the touch of the Queen’s hand on his. “I can see it,” she murmured, her fingers twitching. “The dark magic. For the first time, I can finally see.”

  D’Artagnan’s breath exited in a rush. The heat of her skin grew uncomfortable. Unnatural.

  “If I could just...” she whispered, her voice trailing off.

  They stood like that for several more minutes in silence, broken only by Aramis’ occasional low moans. Eventually, Aramis subsided into stillness—asleep, or unconscious. The Queen sagged, catching herself against the mattress with her free hand. Caught by surprise, d’Artagnan scrambled to support her with a hand under her elbow, both of them breaking contact with the man on the bed.

  “Did it work?” Porthos asked from the far corner, where he still stood between Athos and Milady, each maintaining a grip on his arm that appeared to be more a gesture of support than restraint.

  Queen Anne straightened her spine and took a deep breath, easing away from d’Artagnan, who let her go immediately. “I don’t know. I felt... something. Give me a moment, please, and then I must try to clear the darkness from these rooms—and from you, Porthos. It is inside you, as well—though not, it appears, in any of the others. D’Artagnan, are you strong enough?”

  “I feel no effects, Your Majesty,” he said, hoping desperately that fact didn’t mean his weak reservoir of hedge magic had been useless to her.

  She nodded, resolute. “Very well. Come, then.”

  ONCE THE QUEEN WAS finished, she stated her intention to return to her wing, deflecting the others’ concerns with repeated insistence that the Curse held no threat for either her or her son. After a few minutes to recover her strength, she left them to return to her quarters, with the promise that they would keep her informed of Aramis’ and Porthos’ condition.

  The rest of the day passed in desultory conversation and whatever distraction they could muster. D’Artagnan slept a bit on the unforgiving wooden settle, jerking awake after a few hours, but unable to remember the contents of the dream which had disturbed his rest.

  The following morning, Aramis’ condition was roughly the same... as it was the morning after that, and the morning after that. On the third day, he woke for longer periods, seeming more lucid, and his cough subsided to the point that he was no longer bringing up blood. On the seventh day, Porthos removed his hand from Aramis’ forehead and said, “Does it feel to you as though your fever is down a bit?”

  “My tongue doesn’t feel quite so dry and swollen today, I suppose,” Aramis said.

  “How are your joints?” Porthos asked.

  “They ache,” Aramis replied.

  “What about your head?�
�

  “It aches.”

  “Your stomach?”

  “Fine, at the moment.”

  “Fingers and toes?”

  Aramis allowed him to slide the sheet down, and presented the appendages in question for inspection. “Still the right color,” he said.

  D’Artagnan watched the discussion carefully, wondering if it was too soon to start hoping.

  AT THE END OF THE SECOND week, the siege of Chartres continued. Aramis was still weak and shaky, but his symptoms had improved considerably. The areas around his neck, armpit, and groin remained tender, but the swelling and redness had largely receded. Though his appetite was poor, he was able to eat as long as he stuck to bland foods.

  “What will this mean for Her Majesty?” d’Artagnan asked. He couldn’t bring himself to ask yet what it would mean for France.

  It was Milady who answered. “Aramis is only one man, and people do occasionally recover from the Curse on their own, as I have cause to know. However, Porthos did not fall ill, which argues that she has, in fact, found her magic.”

  “Excellent timing, if I do say so myself,” Aramis rasped. “Though I might be somewhat biased.”

  “The test will come when we can gain access to a magnus,” Athos put in. “With all respect to d’Artagnan’s skills, hedge magic is different from neutral magic. A mage’s skill lies in focusing power through others.”

  Porthos had been a relatively subdued figure since Aramis’ close call. “D’you really think she can free France from the Spanish scourge?” he asked quietly.

  “I think there is a better chance now than there was two weeks ago,” Athos replied.

  They fell silent, each contemplating what the future might bring.

  The following morning, de Tréville threw open the door to the south wing and strode up the stairs to the set of rooms they’d been using, his footsteps echoing along the hallway.

  “Captain!” d’Artagnan said in surprise, scrambling to his feet from the chair in which he’d been slumped. Aramis snuffled awake, blinking sleep out of his eyes as de Tréville approached the bed.

  “If you were going to die, you’d have done it by now, son,” said the Captain, clasping Aramis’ shoulder. “You all might as well come back to the north wing. You’ll be more comfortable there, and I may have need of you before too long.”

  There was something about hearing de Tréville say the words that finally made it real in d’Artagnan’s mind. He’d known that Aramis was slowly getting better, but now, it was as if an unbearable weight was suddenly lifted from him, leaving him almost dizzy at the resulting sensation of lightness.

  “I would not like to think that I was putting anyone at risk,” Aramis said cautiously.

  “Have any of the others gotten sick?” de Tréville asked.

  “No,” d’Artagnan answered for Aramis. “We haven’t.”

  “Then you’re not putting anyone at risk,” de Tréville said. “The Mage Queen has come into her power, and banished your Curse, Aramis. D’Artagnan, wake the others and pack everything up. I want you all back by mid-day.”

  “Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan replied, not sure he’d ever been so pleased to follow an order in his life.

  The rest of the morning was a flurry of activity as they gathered what belongings they had brought with them and picked up their meager food supplies from the kitchen—almost three weeks into the siege, food was not something to be wasted. Aramis balked at being carried on a stretcher, so they eventually contrived to walk him slowly down the back stairs supported between Porthos and Athos, an arm slung over each of their shoulders to keep him upright.

  They did not wish to alarm the bishop’s staff unnecessarily, so they crossed the grounds to reach the north wing rather than go through the main part of the building. A light drizzle was falling from the sultry midday sky, but the misty rain was not enough to dampen their spirits as they entered the large door and proceeded slowly toward the wide staircase leading up to the second floor. A figure emerged onto the landing at the top of the steps, and d’Artagnan’s heart gave an excited stutter when he recognized Constance grinning down at him radiantly.

  The two had continued to exchange letters during the course of Aramis’ slow recovery, and d’Artagnan felt that he was gradually starting to understand her better. In exchange, he had begun to uncover some of the damaged, shadowed parts of himself, exposing them to the light of day within his missives. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, he felt true hope for the future. The Mage Queen and her musketeers had given his life meaning after the loss of his family and farm. With Constance he thought he might... just perhaps... find happiness as well.

  “D’Artagnan!” Constance called delightedly, and hurried down the stairs with light footsteps. She came to a stop half a step in front of him and looked up at him, cheeks flushed. The others continued on to meet de Tréville, who was descending more slowly—giving d’Artagnan and Constance at least a pretense of privacy.

  “Constance,” he said with heartfelt happiness. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”

  “I was so scared for you,” Constance admitted. “And now, to see all of you back, safe and well... I could kiss you!”

  “Then it would please me greatly if you would do so, Constance,” d’Artagnan said, meaning every word.

  Constance bit her lip nervously. With a deep breath, she reached up to frame his face with her hands and direct him down so she could reach. D’Artagnan stayed utterly passive, though he was certain his eyes were expressing his feelings perfectly well without any assistance from the rest of him. He was fully expecting a kiss on the forehead or cheek, so a thrill coursed through his body when Constance’s lips touched the corner of his own, lingering for several seconds. Her eyes were bright when she released him and pulled away.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. D’Artagnan could see her chewing the inside of her cheek, her thoughts evidently turned inward, before her radiant smile suddenly reappeared. “Better than all right. You’re home!”

  Unable to help himself, d’Artagnan gathered her hands in his and raised them to his lips, watching her carefully the whole time to make sure that it wasn’t too much. Her smile did not falter as he kissed her knuckles, and he felt his own lips turn up in an answering grin.

  “Will you walk with me in the grounds, later this afternoon?” he asked, his chest feeling light and free.

  “Happily,” she answered without hesitation. “Now, though, I want to say hello to Aramis and the others.”

  “Of course,” he replied, and the two of them mounted the stairs to rejoin the rest of the group, who were engaged in a happy reunion with de Tréville, and the Queen who had saved their friend’s life—perhaps as a prelude to saving the rest of France.

  Aramis’ lack of stamina caught up with him fairly quickly, and the small party broke up to settle the sick man back in his own room and stow the belongings they’d brought with them. Constance excused herself to return to the baby, reiterating her promise to see d’Artagnan later.

  In the meantime, while Aramis rested, de Tréville briefed the rest of them on the current situation in more detail than his daily notes had contained. While the situation within Chartres’ walls was not yet desperate, unrest was beginning to grow. No one was starving, but most of the livestock within the walls had already been butchered as supplies of animal feed dwindled, and the people were losing patience with the disruption to their lives and livelihoods. It would only be a matter of time until the focus of that resentment came to rest upon the Queen, and fighting within the city itself between citizens and soldiers loyal to Her Majesty would be devastating.

  It was a sobering thought. Until now, d’Artagnan’s thoughts about the siege had largely been directed outward, focusing on Isabella’s troops. He hadn’t fully appreciated the potential threat from within, if conditions in the city got too bad.

  Chartres was one of the
few places in France, it seemed, that had made real progress in recovering from the Curse. Rather than allow the city to languish, its leaders had pulled back to a smaller, more manageable area within the centuries-old walls and refurbished them to protect the city from danger. Within, one could find flourishing tradesmen, industry, and even new construction, something virtually unheard of in France these days.

  It was deeply unsettling to contemplate the very real possibility that they would be responsible for plunging such a hopeful, forward-looking place back into chaos. Not for the first time, d’Artagnan found himself glad that he was only responsible for carrying out Her Majesty’s and de Tréville’s decisions... not making them.

  His walk with Constance later that day was a welcome diversion, albeit one that came with its own set of worries. For some reason, it seemed easier to write of weighty personal matters than address them in person, and he was nervous that he would end up offending or hurting her with a clumsy word. Fortunately, Constance appeared to have enough bravery in that regard for both of them, and d’Artagnan was surprised by her forthrightness as they began to talk of the past and future.

  She had taken his arm as they began to stroll among the greenery outside. While she did not attempt to meet his eyes as she began to speak, she didn’t hesitate with her words, either.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my marriage lately,” she said. “I think that was where things began to go wrong for me. I was so very young when I married... young and naive. I had no older sisters to prepare me before my wedding, and my mother died when I was nine.”

  “I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said. “That must have been hard.”

  “Jacques wasn’t a bad man. He could be thoughtless and impatient sometimes, but he wasn’t a bad husband,” she said.

  D’Artagnan halted, feeling anger rise and trying to tamp it down. “He hurt you.”

  Constance shrugged one shoulder, and tugged him forward by the arm to walk again. “I’m told it always hurts a woman at first. And it didn’t actually hurt, later on—not physically. I just hated it... even though I knew it was my duty as a wife. It used to make me feel sick to my stomach, lying there in the dark with his weight pinning me down, wanting to be anywhere else but in his bed, and knowing I didn’t have a choice in the matter.” This time she was the one who stopped and looked up into his eyes. “I care about you, d’Artagnan. In fact, I believe I’m falling in love with you. But I don’t ever want to find myself in your bed, looking up at you and feeling that kind of sick feeling. I—I don’t think I could do that again.”